The Death Of A Con Man
by sarcasticrocker86
Summary: It's just meant to be a simple investigation. Catch the smugglers, stop Frank Fontaine, and keep Rapture the sweet secret it's meant to be. But... something just doesn't feel right. This is going to change Rapture forever, and it's going to get ugly.
1. Entry One

Author's Note: Please review. I do not own anything, not even Patrick. And for any smart alec and nit-picky critic, _I meant to have a certain amount of typos_!

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I can't believe I'm writing this crap down. Sullivan's made it very clear that he doesn't want us recording anything of this investigation. But something just don't feel right here, and if we all wind up dead or in that nutjob Steinman's hands down in Medical, I want something to remain. I don't trust them audio diaries. So I'm writing on these random scraps of paper and keeping em in my trench coat when I'm on duty, and in a safe when off.

Holy crap, I hope this doesn't blow up in my face.


	2. June

June 2nd, 1958

Yea, I guess that didn't start out too good. My name's Patrick James, and I'm a detective of the underwater city of Rapture's police force.

I've been a cop for only a couple years. I started out in Brooklyn just after high school, then was ostracized three years later for getting a little too close to exposing a dirty judge. I was unemployed for a month when one of Andrew Ryan's men found me. He told me I could come to Rapture and become one of **it's **boys in blue—only now as a detective. I would just have to leave the surface and never come back. I agreed without hesitation. What did I need the surface for, anyway? They could keep their bureaucracy, their dirties, and their damn hypocrisy. I chose Rapture.

It's been a year, and the city's been good. Everyday I'd do my duty and spend my evenings under the entertainment of the Great Sander Cohen and every weekend I spend getting piss drunk at The Eve's Garden. Hell, even on the job there ain't much to enforce. One or two cases of vandalism, a couple fights... Rapture's too busy with it's ADAM to do anything that'll cause a lotta trouble.

ADAM... as if Rapture isn't special enough, we gotta toss a dab of the impossible. Whatever scientific mumbo jumbo goes into it, it comes out one helluva contender to heroin. With ADAM, nothing **can't **be done. I myself haven't done much splicing; something about it makes me uneasy. But if this case keeps going the way it is, I may not have a choice.

So what is this, you ask? This stupid investigation has just fallen into our laps and already I'm shakin like a leaf. **Why?** Friggin' **contraband.** Smugglers! I'm terrified by a couple a moronic, washed up sailors bringing in booze, books, and films from the outside.

As I scratch all this down, I start to think of how much of a chicken I must look. This'll all blow over and I'll be back at ol' Eve's, laughing at myself before I know it. I should just drop this pen and walk away now.

June 4th, 1958

This is going nowhere fast. We keep finding **traces** of these smuggled goods, but never any real evidence. And these boys by the docks aren't exactly giving us any leads, either. Most of us wanna call this a dead end and split, but Sullivan has direct orders from Ryan to keep looking.

Sullivan never struck me as a man who could just take orders. I know he don't like most of them—I can see it in his eyes, yet he keeps playing middle man on this. I don't get it. At least, until I hear Ryan's voice in an announcement. There's something about that guy's talk. It's like he'd just as soon fire ya out of Rapture and into the ocean like a freaking torpedo as say 'good morning'.

Anyway, I'm hoping to hit somethin soon. I want to be over and done with these smugglers ASAP.

June 17th, 1958

We finally found something today. A whole trip-load of outside crap and the man who brought it in. Bad news is the guy's completely cracked. He's been in custody for three days, and all he's given us is him repeating the same stinkin thing over and over. "Fontaine's Home for the Poor. Sad saps. Fontaine's Home for the Poor. Sad saps..." and it goes on.

Of course we'd suspected Fontaine—I mean, the whole thing's goin on on his Fisheries's backyard, but it's all been speculative. We aren't held down by freakin probable cause anymore, but we're like a bunch a lambs that we just seem to need to be herded by crippling rules, even when they aren't there.

Anyways, this mornin we talked to Fontaine. Frank Fontaine: Grade A thug. Kinda reminds me of my father—and my old man was a complete bastard. Fontaine's got huge companies in Rapture: The Fisheries, The Home for the Poor, The Little Sister's Orphanage, **and** Fontaine's Futuristics. Jeez, I mean, the man's got everything he needs to completely trump Ryan, but he doesn't. At least, he hasn't.

Oh, but he can. I watched him today, in his office as he calmly and smoothly answered our questions. He was completely at ease as we practically accused him of breaking one of the only laws in Rapture: contact with the surface. He even smiled, like he was amused of our attempt to corner him. It drove Sullivan nuts, and that just made Fontaine's smile even wider.

As we were leaving, and older detective muttered, "Never met a guy so blatantly guilty and proud of it in all my time on the force, and I've met John Dillinger."

I was the last t' leave; I just stood in the back by the door as the cops left, watching Fontaine return to his paperwork or whatever it is he does. He must've felt my stare, cause he looked up and straight into my eyes. I swear, it felt like he was boring into my mind. Finally, he smiled and winked at me. "Catch me if ya can, kid. Catch me if you can."


	3. July

Author's Note: Haven't gotten any reviews yet. Hmm....I know! _Would You Kindly _review my humble little story?? There. That oughta do it... ;)

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July 6th, 1958

We keep finding the same stupid crap: the contraband with less than stable smugglers carrying it. Figures. The only ones stupid enough to get nabbed by us are the Section Eights of Rapture. Fontaine sure knows how to pick em.

We've done just about everything to catch him in the act. We've searched his office, home, everything. There's just something 'bout that guy. I mean, he's bad, sure, and he's smart... but I've noticed he has no ties anywhere. In people, in things—nothing. The man is his business and nothing but.

It's almost sad. I mean, I came to Rapture alone and I ain't exactly a social butterfly, but I got my fellow cops and my whiskey—and this stupid journal has strangely been keeping my head on a little straighter in this whole thing, but Frank Fontaine's got nothing. At least, nothing I can see.

I won't sugar-coat it: I'm afraid of him. Maybe a bit of splicing wouldn't be too bad after all...

July 12th, 1958 (1:30 am)

Don't think I ever written anything while dis drunk, but don't think I'll 'member tomorrow or whatever. I saw Eve tonight. Sposed t' be at Fisheries but screw them. Ryan was there. Oh, hang on

M'kay. Gonna haveta clean that up but can think clearer. Anyway Ryan was there. Didn't fit. Watched the girls. Followed one. Shouldn't have had that last shot. Gonna puke again. SHI

Same Day (3:00pm)

Sorry 'bout that. Got such a headache I had to call in sick but I can understand enough of my scrambled words to tell you what you what happened.

I've been trying my luck in undercover work at the docks and was supposed to have had a meeting with one of Fontaine's guys. Even got myself a face change for the occasion (first time I ever done anything with ADAM, but I did it myself and it's only temporary). The meeting was supposed to go down at ten last night. By midnight, I'm pretty sure someone had gotten wise and the jig was up. With nothing else to do, I just decided to visit Eve's Garden for a drink.

It was supposed to be one drink; a little something to put my mind at ease. But all the stress of the weeks that been keeping me awake at night just suddenly came crashing down at once... and soon I couldn't walk a straight line. That's when I saw him.

Look, I **know** how drunk I was, but believe me when I say I'm pretty keen even when that wasted.

Andrew Ryan was there, at a table directly in view of the great exotic dancer, Jasmine Jolene.

He just didn't fit there, watching pole dancers while sitting in perfect freaking posture drinking Eve's crappy brandy (expensive as it may be). Sure, everybody knows about Ryan and his multiple affairs. Well, maybe his steady girl, McClintock, won't admit it...

Still, though we all know about his little weakness, it just looked so **wrong**, seeing him there. The Garden is for people like me: young cops over their heads who shrug off their responsibilities to drink away their nerves and a butt-load of braincells. Not Andrew Ryan, the damn king of Rapture.

To be honest, I ain't never really gone to Eve for the dames. Yea, I **am** a man, but it's never been more than a few bored glances at these girls who deserve so much better. Guess that's one thing I got Pops to thank for: I don't ever want to treat a girl the way he treated my mother.

But that ain't Andrew Ryan. He was here fer Jasmine and Jasmine only.

So I just sat there, suckin down another bit of vodka, staring at Ryan. I wasn't alone, either. **Everyone** was looking at 'im, including Miss Jolene. All it took was one "come hither" from that doll and Ryan was following her to the back room like a pup after a frisbee.

Yea, well, go fetch, Ryan. I'll just keep on working on **your **scary as hell investigation while you have your stupid fun.

July 22nd, 1958

We're finally starting to catch some fish, no pun intended, at the docks. I finally got my meeting **and** a name: Timmy H. He ain't Fontaine, but maybe we can use Timmy to to get that much closer to him.

I'll be getting Timmy's shipment a few weeks from now, and we can move in on him then. That's a lotta time to be twiddling my thumbs, but this is a real lead and I'll take what I can get.

Sullivan noticed my excitement over this break, and I think he's been looking at me with a mixture of pride and worry. Don't get why. I'm just doing my job. So what if I'm a little adamant bout it?

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Author's Note: Just fixing a couple of typos I noticed reading this over again. August chapter coming along nicely and should be up in a week or so...


	4. August

Author's Note: Here's August. The lot of you seem to be immune to my _Would You Kindly_ mind control, so I'm going to hit you with another kind. Don't bother to look for it... you will be completely unaware: _pLeAsE rEaD aNd rEvIeW!_

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August 3rd, 1958

Had surveillance work today. Whoopie. It was exactly six hours of watching men haul fish from place to place. But I **did** find one interesting little name by the name of Dr. Brigid Tenenbaum. It's pretty odd to find a sweet little lady scientist at the Fisheries, an even odder to catch her heading toward Fontaine Futuristics right after.

Technically, I was only s'posed to be watching them docks, but I followed her with the cams, anyway, and I was right. She arrived at Fontaine's office and was kindly invited in. Whether the ice princess was Fontaine's nooner or she was on actual business, she was not so nicely kicked out an hour or two later. The cams may not give a lotta details, but, man, I got quite a bit of pleasure from seeing that schemer's face contort in anger the way it had...

Anyway, I gotta check this out. Fontaine's an arrogant pig. He may very well have somethin lying around about this lovely little encounter that may shed some light . I'll go searching Fontaine's office (yet again) tonight.

August 4th (2:00am)

Don't got a lot of time. I knew keeping this journal around would come in handy. Long story short, I was right and, while Fontaine's usually good at keepin his nose clean, I found a tape about his take on the meeting with Tenenbaum. Not much, but it's something. I'm scratching what I can down:

"I put up with that Kraut and all her crap and this is what I get? 'Oh, Fontaine, can't we put the snooty brats in a vegetative state while bonded with the damn slug? Oh, Fontaine, why just girls? Oh, Fontaine, Jack's conditioning goes the best when you're there, can't you play daddy for him more?' And I deal with all of her stupid little needs! But now the bitch thinks she can double cross **me**? She thinks she can run off and shut down our projects because of a freaking **conscience**? Cry me a freaking river. But I can fix this. I can

Same Day (10:00am)

Didn't get to finish the damn tape (or make heads or tails of it—it's like he's speaking Japanese t' me). I heard something while I was listening to the diary, so I high-tailed outta there as quickly as possible. I swear I heard whatever it was say my name.

It's a Sunday, so I'm going to talk to Tenenbaum today at Mercury Suites. Then I'm going back to Fontaine. He's screwing with us, and after last night, I'm pretty pissed and tired of it.

I'm writing this down right now—cause I'm not so sure about **later** anymore. I know it's all paranoia or whatever it's called, but I just don't know if my next entry is a guarantee. Rapture's going to change, I can feel it.

But no matter what, I'm heading to the Doc now. I'm just sure as hell glad I have my good friend, Flasky, with me. Should give a little hand with the nerves.

Later (8:00pm)

Good news: I'm alive. Bad news: Just about everything else.

Went to Tenenbaum's apartment. I had figured I knew how to read people. I **hadn't** figured if "people" included a chick that's survived months of Nazi prison camps as a kid. Compare an SS to a young security detective, and ya ain't exactly petrified of my questions.

She was cold, icy, and calm as I spoke to her—nothing gave her away. But I promised myself I wasn't finished with her. She knows **something**, and I'm going to find out what.

If I don't get fired first.

I went to Fontaine's suite from Tenenbaum. I got a not so joyful surprise awaiting me.

As I waited for a response from the **buzzer** to go up the **elevator** to his **penthouse**, I was surprised to see the lift coming down, occupied with my boss! And, oh, was he unhappy. His eyes widened when he saw me down below, then set in a dirty look. Soon as the doors popped open, he was on me.

"You!" Sullivan lashed at me. "What the hell were you thinking, James?"

I raised my arms in surprise and defense. "What are you talkin' about?"

Instead of answering, Sullivan opened a file he had in his hand and practically threw a bunch of photos at me. All of me, breaking and searching Fontaine's office last night.

Sullivan told me that Fontaine had shot the pics with some paparazzi parasite's help, and now it was all over Rapture and the media.

"You know what this means?" Sullivan was all steam. "Now everyone not only knows we're investigating Fontiane, but now they think we're infringin on their rights!"

I didn't get it. We'd searched Fontaine's places before without a warrant. Why was this different?

"We don't get caught!" Sullivan's face brought to my mind a red balloon. "Either way, we don't support cops just jumping the gun like you did last night."

"I caught Fontiane and Tenenbaum duking it out while watching the docks yesterday, so I—"

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me. You didn't go barking up that Kraut's tree, did you?"

I didn't give him the answer I knew at this point he'd slap me for at this point. Instead, I told him, "You don't get it. There is seriously something going on with those two. Look what I found."

I showed him the transcript I'd recorded, but Sullivan just shook his head. "You didn't finish this. It could mean anything. Look, Patrick, I know your story from the surface. If you don't want that happening again, you should ease up on Fontaine. The guy could easily have you scrubbing floors at McDonagh's, and with stunts like this, ya ain't gonna get any help from Ryan. Just **report** before you take any more crazy leaps, understand?"

I nodded stupidly.

"Good. Now, we've got to fix this mess. Fontaine's upstairs with some reporters, answering questions about last night. You're going to make a public apology, right there and then. Then you're going to go home and take a vacation til this thing cools down."

I tried to plead my case, but Sullivan stopped me. "Kid, don't test me. Leave the smuggling ring me, and no more renegade cop antics."

I had to bite my tounge to stop myself from mouthing off, but I nodded again, with slightly more force than before.

"Alright, now buck up that smile. We gotta make this look good."

Sullivan brought me up to Fontaine and I apologized like an ashamed five year old who'd just spilled grape juice on the carpet. I could feel the distaste against me from everyone in the room. Fontaine just smiled and nodded as I muttered my pathetic little apology, full of mock sympathy and, I think, a little pride at his small victory and my huge defeat.

"Hey, pal," Fontaine held his hand out to me, "you were just trying to do your job. We're alike, you and I. You keep Rapture safe and I keep em fed."

Typical he'd bring up his charity. Saint Fontaine, graciously letting out his hand to the dirty thief out to get you. How touching, huh? So, like a good puppet being manipulated, I took his hand and shook it.

The reporters in the room scuffled like a storm to get their cameras to capture this wonderful moment. In the commotion, I saw Fontaine's face change from the benevolent forgiver to the bitter con man I knew he was. He smiled... **evilly** and whispered so only I could hear him say, "Tag, kid. You're it."

August 14th, 1958

Boy, have these past days felt familiar. Yep, drinking all day, watching Cohen and Jasmine by night, and sleeping til four in the afternoon is **exactly **what I was hoping for when I came to Rapture. Yea, **NO**.

Don't get me wrong, I love that crap, but I love my job even more. And Fontaine has just been eating and eating away at me.

Sullivan still won't give me a green light, even though I was pretty much forgotten after that day. Ryan, in an attempt to throw Fontaine's "benevolent saint" public opinion, has started tiny, little, oh so subtle stabs at Fontaine in comical ads for plasmids and other things—like one features a bald man named Frank who's too freaked to splice, even to give him hair. Oh so subtle.

But I don't think Frank Fontaine should be praised 'n I don't think he should be laughed at. I think he should just be stopped before we all get end up at the butt end of his schemes.

August 19th, 1958

Finally got a call from Sullivan today. Said Jasmine Jolene has just disappeared and Ryan wants Fontaine arrested as soon as possible. I was surprised. Eve was closed last night but I hadn't seen any cops. Like we aren't trying to find her, just keep it quiet.

Sullivan wants me to splice. He said things are gonna get bad and he wants us prepared. My "meeting" with that Timmy H. schmoe's at midnight tomorrow. We're gonna pick him up and hopefully make a deal for Fontaine.

I kind of hate the idea of splicing. I mean, it's pretty permanent, unlike the work I did on my face that's already gone back. And I've heard way too many spook stories to just be okay with it. But Sullivan was very specific when he said he wanted me t' get an Electro Bolt plasmid. I'm gettin a bad feeling about all of this.

August 21st, 1958

I killed a man today.

I didn't mean to. I swear I didn't mean to! I had no idea in hell Timmy H. had a heart problem.

Okay, gotta focus. Gotta breathe.

We picked up Timmy H. last night, then "interviewed" him around three in the morning. I wasn't part a the actual arresting, I was just s'posed to be at the interrogation.

I had had no clue what was going on. Sullivan had told me to wait for them under the staircase by the Fisheries. It was pretty secluded, and I just figured it was for the intimidation factor while we interview. Oh, man, I was so wrong.

I knew I should have run as soon as I saw them drag an already beaten and bleeding Timmy H. down the the stairs. A couple of the bigger guys of the squad handcuffed Timmy's hands to a broken pipe. Then it was just me, Sullivan, and Timmy H., water pouring down his body from the pipe.

I couldn't move. I just watched as Sullivan set an audio tape to record and say, "Mr. Ryan asked me to personally make this clear to you, Timmy. You give us Fontiane, and this whole filthy ring of his, and you'll be knocking back pints up at the Fighting McDonaghs. But if you prefer to play the mule...we'll treat you like a mule..." and Sullivan looked at me and winked. Oh, crap, he looked so much like Fontaine then I wanted to look away, but I couldn't. I don't know why, but I couldn't just look away...

"Give 'im a taste, Patrick."

And suddenly I knew. I knew why I now had thousands of electric volts coursing through my veins. Oh, I didn't mean to! I don't know why I...

Breathe.

So, I shot up Timmy H. with a bolt of electricity. I watched him spasm and cry out in pain and agony as the shock went through his body, only multiplied by the water. I thought it was a myth—that smoke could come from a mouth like that. The flashes burst and flickered, almost blinding me.

And, even through Timmy's screams, Sullivan put a hand to his hear so casually and asked, "Oh, what's that? Change of heart, Timmy?" The shocks were fading now. "Timmy!" Sullivan sounded like he was talking to a kid who'd fallen asleep in History class. "Ready to talk now?"

Timmy gasped for breath and I saw tears running down his face. "Go on Sullivan," he said. He didn't look at me. To him, I guess, I was just another puppet. Another one of Ryan's freaking puppets. "Go on and do your dirty. Whatever Ryan thinks he can do to me, **FONTAINE CAN DO ****DOUBLE****!**"

So Sullivan had me do it again. And again. By the third "taste", Timmy H. was dead.

Sullivan just left him there, behind a locked gate. I came home and sat here, staring at my arm. I pulled out one of my kitchen knives sometime in the night, contemplating cutting the whole damned thing off.

At daybreak, Andrew Ryan made a special announcement. He said all smugglers are parasites—mercenaries willing to risk the secrecy of Rapture for a cheap dollar. Therefore, all found taking part in this heinous and traitorous crime will be put to death, namely by way of hanging.

This is going too far. Ryan, Sullivan, all of it. I would turn in my badge now, but what Timmy said is still hot on my brain. "Fontaine can do double..."

Timmy didn't refuse to help us and give up Fontaine cause he's loyal to the son of a bitch. He refused to help us cause he was genuinely **terrified** of Fontaine. Someone can't hold that kind a power over someone with just talk. Fontaine's dangerous, and I'm going to stop him. **Then** I'll turn in the badge.


	5. September

Author's Note: September is here! Even if ya'll are too lazy to review, just do me a favor and vote in a teensy poll on my profile page. It will take less than two minutes so just do me the little solid. Thanks!

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September 1st, 1958

I've already arrested five smugglers and seen three hung, but things are only getting nastier.

We've been secretly keeping tabs on Fontaine's Home for the Poor, and some people have actually gone missing. Missing! This is Rapture, people don't exactly dig a hole to China! Where could these people possibly go? We checked the Drop, too, but Lamb's bums are all present and accounted for. So it's just Fontaine, and **that** scares me. More than you can imagine.

Tenenbaum's gone. Disappeared, just like the others. I don't know what to think anymore. She could be dead or laying low—I just can't guess. Sullivan's the only one other than me who's seen the transcript I recorded, and he won't do anything about it.

Still, the man's been pretty keyed up about the new death penalty. It's kinda nice to see him as bothered as we all are by Ryan. Who, speaking of, seems to have been practically barricading himself in his office. We're actually having to keep two men at Hephaestus at all times now, which I think is a huge waste of our time.

We've opened the door to any smuggler: give us Fontaine and his crew and all pardons will be extended.

Everytime I've seen a smuggler hung, I always feel the same sick feeling I had wit Timmy H. Yea, I mean, I've seen this contraband, and while it's harmless things like whiskey, cigars, and movies, what Ryan's most pissed off about is the religious stuff. It don't make sense t' me. So what if some of them want a god or not? Ryan says religion's a parasite waiting to consume the body of Rapture, but I wonder if his own philosophy won't become a parasitic religion, neither.

You know what? It doesn't matter. I'll leave religious rights crap for Lamb and Ryan to fight over. But I don't think those smugglers deserve to die. I just want Fontaine.

September 4th, 1958

We got a mysterious tip the other night. Someone wants to meet us—wants to tell us everything. Goes by the name of Sammy G., and he wants to be completely incognito over the whole thing. We set up a meeting tonight. I hope this is for real.

September 5th, 1958

Our informant is dead. At least, that's who we think he is. We found him stuffed in a sack by a salt lake. His whole face was beaten to a pulp; he actually had freezer burn. It's frightening—the thought that this could be going on down here. I've seen a lot up at the surface: parents molesting their children, husbands and wives shooting each other, friends stabbing each other in the back. The idea that it's going on here, in...Utopia...it's hard to wrap the head around. I miss the days of vandalism and fights.

And this is all Fontaine's fault.

I told the others, based on the freezer burns, if we checked the Fisheries' freezers, we would find enough dirtiness to send him away for a long, long time. But the boys laughed in my face, jiving at me about my last attempt at search and seizure. And Sullivan? He tells me even if my hunch is correct, that won't do nothing about the smuggling ring. Who cares about the smuggling ring?! Fontaine's dangerous! Can't anyone other than me see that, or do we need a **bigger** body count? I don't know how much more of this I can take.

September 8th, 1958

Saw one of them...things today.

I was at the Fighting McDonagh's—I go there ever since Eve closed. Temporary my ass. Something happened beyond Jolene, and I don't know if this is a dirty deed of Fontaine or Ryan—or both. Anyway, the tavern's fine (if they didn't put so much water in the damn booze), but today I actually saw one of them.

They say it's a common side-affect of splicing, but I'm not so sure. I think I may just be going crazy.

My sight crackled as I sat at the bar. I rubbed my eyes, thinking it was just the beer. But I'd barely had a sip. So I got up and left for a moment of some air. Outside the tavern was a hallway made of clear, thick glass, revealing the depths of the ocean. When I was a kid, my ma would take me to the aquarium. I never figured I would be at the other side of it.

As I stared at the fish passing carelessly by, my vision crackled again—only worse. I turned to see two deadly white ghosts, engrossed in their own conversation. I recognized Timmy H. immediately, and caught the un-destroyed face of Sammy G.

"You can't go to Sullivan!" Timmy was saying. "If Fontaine finds out—"

"Screw Fontaine," Sammy returned casually. "He can't keep thinking I'll bark like a freaking cocker spaniel just cause he asks nicely."

Timmy grabbed Sammy's shoulder and turned him so Sammy was looking into Timmy's eyes and said, deadly serious, "You can't screw over Fontaine. He always beats you to the punch."

The ghosts faded and everything looked normal again, but I can't get the conversation out of my head.

This has to end soon, or it's going to kill me.

September 10th, 1958

Sullivan called us all into his office. It was a lot of people to put in one room, but at least it's secure. McDonagh, one of the mug's on Raptures city council, was there. He seems a decent enough guy—one of the few men who seem to keep a conscience, whether or not he profits from it.

McDonagh told us he had been able to talk one of the smugglers into giving us Fontaine. Whoever the squealer was, he gave McDonagh everything we need to catch Fontaine in the act and managed not to get himself whacked. Good for him.

If McDonagh had his source right, Fontaine's gonna be pulling a huge job tomorrow night. If we can catch him in the act we'll finally be able to bring the bastard in. We can arrest him and everything will go back to normal.

I'm kinda repeating myself, aren't I? I can't help it. I want to get this guy more than anything else. Maybe if we get him, it'll make all the bad I done better. Maybe... maybe I'll stop seeing ghosts and stop feeling so isolated from everyone else. Maybe I'll just be able to sleep again at night. And maybe then I'll feel like one of the good cops again.

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Author's Note: September 12th, 1958 (FINAL ENTRY) coming soon!


	6. September 12th, 1958

Author's note: Final chapter. Special thanks to** rednightmare**, **RomZomCom**, **DestinyIntertwined**, and **Venom Wolf** for the encouragement in reviewing and favoriting, You really helped me out a lot. For anyone else, I'd still love any feedback you could lend to an amateur such as myself. Hope you enjoy!

September 12th, 1958

Fontaine knew. That son of a bitch knew, and he was ready.

But I had no idea he could be **that** ready.

All this time, all these months, I thought I had the crook figured. I thought I, of all people, knew he's a slimy snake. But even snakes have hearts. Fontaine...he's just a monster. **Was** a monster.

Now, look, I never pretended I was a writer, but I'm gonna try to write what happened last night as detailed as possible. We can't just forget about this. Heaven knows I won't.

We knew Fontaine was bringing a huge shipment to F. Futuristics. This one was too monumental to just quietly bring in at the docks.

We came in near midnight, and the boxes and a few smugglers were ripe for the taking. No Fontaine, but I told myself to be patient. It was going to come.

McDonagh had told us on our way out to watch our backs, but at this point, we could have cared less. Those smugglers were all ours. Me, I was just so consumed with the idea of nabbing Fontaine. No, not nabbing Fontaine. My blood was a fire that couldn't be just put out in my veins—something that had taken three months to kindle. Three months of death and pain and frustration and hatred. Nabbing Fontaine? Nah, I wanted to shoot his brains out, or electrocute him until his guts were ash, or pound him until he looked just like Sammy G. Yea, making him look like Sammy sounded like a good deal to me then.

We had felt so damn sure of ourselves. We, with our little revolvers and trench coats and fedoras, like a bunch of Humphrey Bogart extras, as we took down those smugglers. While some of us started the handcuffing, eight smugglers in all, we started prying open those crates, smiling and oh-so pleased with ourselves at the final victory we had come upon.

Until we opened the first box, and our smiles disappeared as quickly as they had come.

Because it was packed with tommy guns and ammo. There had to have been dozens packed in there, ready to be picked up and used, practically beggin for it. And just like that, our celebration was over.

Sullivan, fear filled and plain in his voice, ordered the next crate to be opened. Shotguns in this one. Then next one: crossbows. Crossbows!

By the last one, we were all pretty rattled. Sullivan ordered that one to be opened, too, but the cop on it struggled with the crowbar—his palms were sweaty with fear. Finally, Sullivan shoved him aside and pryed it open himself. This one was filled with grenade launchers.

Someone said, "Holy—"

And the lights went out. It was so dark I couldn't see my hand in front of my face. But I could hear Tommy's scream. It was twisted and agonized and it made my blood run cold. I bit my tongue to the point of blood in my mouth. No, this wasn't a dream. This was all too real.

The lights came back on—and I immediately wished they hadn't. 'Cause I saw Tommy. His arm was actually ripped off and bleeding beside him. He was writhing in a fetal position, and I felt my stomach heave. I looked over to see Bill in even worse condition, a rusty metal fishhook through his heart. And then Paul, his skull bashed in and a bloodied pipe beside him.

Something laughed, and they attacked.

Splicers.

Rapture's dirty little secret. We'd tried to ignore it. We'd tried to forget that it was happening. But here they were, and they wanted blood.

Turns out, ADAM is much more dangerous than we had thought. Too much, and it's addicting. Too much, and your body is disfigured and your mind goes completely off the deep end. Too much, and you just... stop being a person and start being a thing.

These things are called splicers.

So there they all came and there they all fought and hurt and broke. Andrew Ryan's favorite word rose in my mind whiles I ducked for cover. Parasites. Those splicers were parasites. They took and ruined and gave nothing back. Bill's wife and twin boys are going to be alone from now on. Tommy, if he recovers, can't afford enough ADAM to fix his arm. Paul's little girl was taken to the Little Sister's Orphanage. Nobody wants to know what goes on in the Little Sister's Orphanage. Parasites. That's what those splicers were.

And Fontaine had created them all to do his kindly bidding.

Insanity was on every side of me, and my heart sounded like Sander Cohen's symphonies: thudding and thumping, so that I thought it was louder than the firefight surrounding me. But I ducked and rolled and just about every other kinda dodging movements to keep moving on. A splicer jumped in front of me while I was sprinting up the stairs, with a wrench and a twisted mouth like taffy. I shot it straight in the face, and suddenly the smile was gone. What a handy little problem solver I gots, I remember thinking. A splicer met me in front of the door, blood soaking it's wrist. There was so much blood last night.

"I told him I was sorry!" it was crying. "I just don't wanna play anymore!"

It lunged at me, but unlike the last splicer, this one had some kind of... of dash plasmid. It was like the wind had taken him up and driven him straight at me. I couldn't avoid it, and it felt like a truck had hit me. The thing had me on the ground, and pulled out a knife, ready to slit my throat. But as it fumbled with the blade, I was able to grab his shoulder and send as much Electro Bolt into his body as I could. It fell beside me and began to seize. I stood, my chest feeling pained from the hit, went to the splicer, and I stomped its head in with my foot.

I remember once, when I was a kid and Pops was sober (that seemed to happen once every time Ma would get fed up and try to kick the sorry bastard out of the house), he took me to a wrestling match. One of the fighters, hopped up on steroids and probably somethin else, decided enough just wasn't enough at tap-out. When they finally got 'im off the opponent, the loser was little more than blood, spat out teeth, and purple bruises. And that was the splicer I had kicked. Again and again and again while it cried, "Didn't want to...so sorry."

When I was finished, I continued on in a panicked or enraged run (I don't really know which one), my bloodied shoes leaving a trail behind me. As I ran, I pulled out my last vial of EVE, took a deep breath, and emptied it into my wrist.

With a gun ready and loaded, electricity coursing through my veins, and a firm conviction, I pushed through the doors into Fontaine's office.

He stood, turned away from me, hands together behind his back, staring out the glass into the ocean and city.

"These poor splicers, huh, Patrick?" he said without turning. "They come to Rapture thinking they're gonna be captains of industry. But they all forget that **somebody's** gotta scrub the toilets. What an angle they gave me, eh, kid? I mean, I hand these mugs a cot and a bowl of soup, and they give me their **lives**." Fontaine turned to me and smiled wryly as he raised his arms theatrically. "Who needs an army when I got Fontaine's Home for the Poor?"

I stared at him for a long time before saying anything. A long time I just stood there, revolver pointed to him, studying every hint of his face. I didn't want to forget it—this moment of reckoning. I memorized every detail of the room, tracing it slowly with my eyes.

Fontaine looked no more worried than maybe if he had put a bet on the races. His shoulders were slacked, that stupid smirk on his face, his arms folded across his chest as he patiently waited for me to respond. He was a tall guy, a head higher than me, but he wasn't wimpy or gangly. he had a decent amount of arm muscle and his hands were calloused. Unlike people like JS Steinman or Andrew Ryan, Fontaine had worked a day in his life. He was wearing a business suit without a jacket, and his undershirt under his vest was rolled to his elbows. One of his eyebrows began to raise, the only hair on his head other than a faint mustache above his lips. I'm going to kill this man, I remember thinking, a small whisper in my head.

Finally, I started to answer him, and I couldn't believe the iciness, anger, and pure hostility—all in one, in my own voice. "You take people when they're vulnerable and twist them to do your own dirty," I said.

Fontaine only shrugged. "Yea. I did. Just like Ryan did with you."

I was taken aback. "What did you... say?" I didn't understand.

"You and all his other loyal citizens. You were burned topside, yea? Dirty judge didn't like your snooping? Blind justice, my ass. So you were unemployed. You were pissed. Maybe even a little bitter. Ryan saw that and ran with it like a brat with a kite. You were a perfect little puppet for his security force."

No, I must have heard wrong, I thought. He couldn't have used the word "puppet", could he have?

But Fontaine nods like he's answering my thought. "Two types a people in the world, Patrick: puppets and puppet masters. Me, Ryan, Suchong, Sinclair, even that Lamb twist—we're all the masters. You, Rodriguez, ol' Peachy, Sullivan—**especially **Sullivan, are all lined up on the shelf to be used the way **we** want you t' be. And when ya don't play ball..." he raised his shoulders. "Well, we gotta cut your strings."

My lips were numb as I said, "Like you did with Sammy G."

"Like you did with Timmy H."

"I didn't—"

"What? Want to? Mean to? 'Course not, but you **had **to. Pal, you ain't nothin' more than Ryan's monkey-boy, dancing whenever he plays the music."

"No..."

"Hell, yes, Patrick. You've just gotta own up to it. You—"

I didn't let him finish the sentence. Instead, I rushed at him, a rage I didn't understand then making me blind to anything else but the emotion itself. Even while I write this...I—I can't think too much about it, or it'll get to me again.

He didn't fight back as I landed a sucker punch on him. Didn't struggle against my grab to his collar. Barely even winced as I slammed him into the glass window. Didn't fight. Didn't cry out. But he laughed. Lauged and smiled with a pride—pride!, when I pressed my revolver to his head.

"Good little Pinocchio!" Fontaine had some blood on his lips. "Now, go on and fire."

I started seeing yellow and I told myself that came from lack of air. Breathe, damn it! I tried to calm myself, but the air was too thick, like someone had filled the room with smoke. And I kept myself from looking around because I knew the walls would be closing in. It was then I was genuinely afraid for my life. Breathe! Please, breathe?!

"God," I prayed. I'd never prayed before. "Just let me breathe."

Call it whatever you want. Call it a psychological reaction due to putting faith into some higher being, little higher on the scale than a kid believing that his favorite super hero will save him from the monster under the bed. I don't really care. But I swear I felt my body relax and I was able to take a breath in. Then out.

And that's about the time Sullivan popped in.

"James!" I'm not really sure whether his statement had been in relief or shock.

Fontaine called over to Sullivan, "Just finishing up here! Go ahead, Patrick."

"No, James, don't—!"

"You're not gonna listen to **him**, are ya, kid? What do ya think's gonna happen? You hand me over to Ryan and become a great hero? Everyone lives happily ever after? Kid, yer gonna kill me no matter what. It's just a matter of whether or not you get that nice coat of yours dirty."

What did he **want**? Was he afraid of Ryan? I don't think so. I don't remember fear in his eyes. Just determination.

"Patrick, man up and pull the trigger."

"James, do **not** pull that..."

"Ha! what do ya do when your strings are being pulled two different directions, kid?"

"Patrick, damn it! Just give me your gun!"

And somewhere, deep inside my head, I heard, _"Fontaine can do double!"_

"James," Sullivan was angry now. "We have orders—"

I took a deep breath. In. Out. In. Out.

"Just take the gun, Sullivan," I said finally, releasing Fontaine and holding out my revolver to Sullivan.

Sullivan took it gingerly, then looked at me with a condemnation that made me realize I'd made a mistake. I had thought I was the danger, but in that moment I saw what Sullivan had going in his head. I tried to make a lunge for my gun, but it was too late.

Sullivan was already at Fontaine, and I was frozen in shock as he said to the con man, "Ryan says hello."

That gunshot seemed to be the loudest of that entire, awful night. That gunshot that had had the bullet fire straight through Fontaine's heart, **i****f** he'd ever actually had had one. That single fire of my revolver is the one that I can still hear ringing in my ears.

I think Fontaine was genuinely as surprised as I was in those few seconds he had left. He put his hand to his wound, and when it came back bloody, I swear he looked relieved. Then he fell to the floor, and I know his last breath was a sigh.

Me and Sullivan stared at the body for a second, like we expected Fontaine to jump back up, laughing like a maniac in one of them zombie pictures. Finally, Sullivan (and I noticed his coat was bloody) turned to look at me and said, "The splicers are retreating. We gotta help the wounded."

That's it. Like nothing had just happened.

I nodded numbly.

Sullivan handed me back my gun. "Let's go."

As we were leaving, I noticed a man-sized tube starting to glow blue. I almost turned back to investigate, but another scream of pain from Tommy reminded me of my priorities and I turned back to follow Sullivan out.

An hour later, after the docs came and took the wounded away, a couple of medics come to me and ask if I'm playing some kind a crude joke.

"You said there's a body in the office, right?"

"Yea..."

"Ain't nothing there but a stain in the carpet. I don't have time for..."

But I had already started running to Fontaine's office to see for myself before the medic could finish his sentence.

He was gone, baby, gone. Nothing left but a stain of blood on the floor like the medics had said. I couldn't believe it. I ran Fontaine's death through my head again, making sure I hadn't just imagined it...

Then I'm at Ryan's office lobby with Sullivan, waiting for a special meeting with Andrew Ryan himself. Sullivan kept looking at me like he wanted to say somethin, but kept changing his mind. I had to duck into a garbage can and puke at one point, and as I hurled, Sullivan was patting me on the back in a fatherly way, tellin me that he was nervous, too. Nerves. Right. The real reason behind my dinner's comeback was because over the announcements one of the announcer's said, "Andrew Ryan asks you, Are you a man, or are you a slave?"

Ryan's office was exactly like you'd imagine: way to big and kinds daunting. I felt way too small in the room, and I hated that that's what it was supposed to do.

"Detective Patrick James," Ryan greeted me. To Sullivan, "Always a pleasure."

He had us sit, then said to me, "I wish I could speak to you more personally, but we must get down to business at once. Now, I would like to hear a re-account from the both of you about the whole...ordeal tonight."

We both told him the story, 'cept I kept what Fontaine had said me to myself. Ryan listened intently and I saw a little bit of hatred toward Fontaine behind his eyes. It was the same I'd seen behind Sullivan's eyes. The same I knew had been in mine.

"So who actually shot him?"

Sullivan and me looked at each other. I raised an eyebrow at him, waiting for his response.

"I did, sir." Sullivan finally mumbled. "Just as you ordered."

Ryan nodded. "And only Detective James fell witness to this act?"

"Yea," Sullivan said. Then added, "Sir."

"Does anyone else know Fontaine's body is missing?"

I said, "I told the two medics his body was in the office, and they told me it wasn't there."

"And that is when you realized?"

"Yes, sir." We both spoke in unison.

"All right. I will get their names and speak to them later."

"Sir?" Sullivan got up. "I don't think—"

"Fontaine is dead, yes?"

"Yes, Mr. Ryan, but—"

"There is no possible way he could have survived that gunshot?"

Here Sullivan actually hesitated, so I stepped in, "No."

"Then we are to assume Frank Fontaine's body was dragged off by some crazed splicer. It's probably being defiled as we speak." He shook his head and I grimaced. Ryan continued, "As far as the press is concerned, however, Fontaine was killed in the shoot out, and he is in Rapture's morgue ready to be incinerated into dust. Any word of his body's disapearance and rumors will spread like wildfire. Fontaine's ghost haunting the halls of my city! No, we never lost his body, understand?"

"Of course, Mr. Ryan," Sullivan nodded rapidly.

I was disgusted. My boss puts up such a **look** of a fight around us cops. Around the arrested smugglers. Around Fontaine when he had a gun to the thug's head. But here? In front of Andrew Ryan? he was nothing but a shriveling **putz**!

_"__**Especially**__ Sullivan..."_ Fontaine's words chimed in my head, and I hated to see that they were true.

Ryan caught my anger like I would catch a baseball. "Chief Sullivan, please allow me to speak to Detective James alone, if you please?"

Sullivan looked at me for a moment like a deer in the headlights, then nodded.

I sat alone with this man's massive presence, feeling the cool air drain from the room. I really didn't want to start sweating in front of Andrew Ryan, but I could already feels the beads starting to form.

"May I offer you a drink? It could help calm the nerves. You've had quite a night."

A drink? Holy crap, yes, yes! "No, thanks...sir."

"All right. Now, Patrick? May I—"

"Yes, sir. Please call me Patrick."

"Patrick." Ryan stood from his seat and rounded his desk to me. He half sat, half leaned on the front of his desk and folded his hands onto his lap. I know this technique well. It says, "I **want** to be your friend, but I** can **squash you like a bug if you don't act civil." I looked away from him.

"Patrick," Ryan said again, "do you understand why I chose you to be a part of the force in my city?"

Here we go. "Not specifically."

"Because I thought that you would understand above most why we must fight the parasites."

My eyes flickered back to him, slightly interested, Ryan continued with a question, "Your father was an abusive drunk, was he not? He took from you and your mother all through your childhood?"

He didn't need my answer.

"And it was he, correct, who prompted your mother's suicide when you were nineteen? And you never heard from him again after that?"

As if I didn't want to sweat in front of Ryan, I definitely didn't want to break down in front of him. I just nodded.

"Your father, Patrick, was a parasite. He stole and stole from you until you were bled dry, and he gave you nothing in return. And it is he, and those like him, that I fight against. And I had hoped you would feel the same."

He waited and watched me and my reaction. I kept my mouth shut.

"And yet," Ryan kept going, "you look at me and you look at your chief as though we are the enemy. Did Frank Fontaine happen to pass anything onto you before his demise that would cause this behavior?"

I still remained quiet, so Ryan began to talk like I wasn't there. "I remember when Fontaine came to Rapture...about ten years ago? Yes, I think, so. he came with almost nothing. Started the Fisheries and slowly moved up the Great Chain. It was a thing of pride for me, as you would imagine, to see someone rise in Industry from nothing. And, of course, the discovery of the slug and the creation of Fontaine Futuristics completely brought him to the top. But as soon as he started becoming Rapture's strongest parasite, I could not allow it to continue."

I finally asked, "How was he such a parasite?"

"Well, Patrick, while you have only been investigating for a few months, this smuggling has been going on for quite some time. Yet I could never find enough evidence to be sure. And his **charity**. It only breeds more and more parasites, you see? Of course you have. Tonight, especially, with those splicers. I just hope the injured will be able to recover.

I nodded again.

"Patrick, you know above anyone that Fontaine had to be stopped."

"Yea, I do."

Ryan smiled. "Good. Then we are agreed. Glad to see you have remembered your importance on the Great Chain. Fontaine is dead, and life in Rapture can return to normal." He went back to his chair. "We are done, then."

"No, we're not."

Ryan looked at me. "Pardon?" He raised an eyebrow.

_"Two types a people in the world, Patrick: puppets and puppet masters... you're all lined up on the shelf to be used the way __**we**__ want you to be..."_

I pulled out my badge and looked at it for a long moment. It was supposed to mean something, that thing I cradled in my hands. It had always meant something to me. "To protect and serve", right? But not down here. Not in Rapture. Not anymore. "Protect" is gone. If it hadn't been, I would have been able to save Sammy G., Bill, Tommy, Paul, and alll the others fallen to Fontaine and all his evil. I would have spoken out against the death penalty as soon as it had passed. I wouldn't have been so full of anger and hate for Fontaine that I couldn't stop and see what really was going on. I wouldn't have murdered Timmy H. Maybe I...I wouldn't have just stood by and allowed Sullivan to take the law into his own hands and shoot Fontaine the way he had. Because somewhere, I knew, while I watched Fontaine touch his wound slowly, that this will not be the last time Sullivan plays hitman for Andrew Ryan. I should have and could have done so many things to honor the badge I held then, but I didn't. I only "served", and served all the wrong things.

I was going to do the important thing Sullivan can't. I knew then it was time to "cut the strings"—and not like Fontaine put it.

I placed my badge carefully down on Ryan's desk. "With all do respect, sir, I resign from the force."

Ryan looked at the badge, then me. His face hardened and, wouldn't ya know it? the cold air came back in the room right quick. Actually, it felt like coldfront had blown in.

"Get out," he said in a dark voice.

"Goodbye, sir," I said, feeling the relief of the world being lifted off of my shoulders as I stepped out.

I'd did it! I'd stood up to Ryan! Andrew freaking Ryan!

So here I am now, officially unemployed—and surprisingly pleased about it. And I swear I haven't had any booze since yesterday.

But there is still a lot to worry about. Ryan's going to seize all of Fontaine's assets—like he swore he never would? Yea, just like he'd promised there'd be no real laws in Rapture. The body count from last night isn't looking any better, and the splicers we took to the hospital seem to have lost their marbles forever. Ryan is dropping the charity organizations, like I knew he would, and all those desperate people in 'Pollo Square are gonna collapse on themselves. Ryan probably thinks he can just ignore the situation and it'll correct itself. Ryan's had more post-schooling than if you quadruple my high school career, and** I** got more sense than that.

Frank Fotnaine's dead, and even now he's ruining everything. He's brought out the ugly side of Rapture, and I gotta feeling we're only going to go down from here. The confidence man's wound up on the wrong side of his own grift, but it's going to see itself to the end.

And me thinks we are totally screwed.


End file.
